HeavensBlessings
Angel
- Aug 20, 2024
- 3
I am not human.
I don't deserve to be treated like a human.
I don't deserve to be treated like a person.
None of my feelings are genuine, I can't think like a normal human should.
It gets very tiring to pretend. Each day feels like a performance where I'm constantly out of sync with the world around me. The effort it takes to keep up appearances and to act like I understand what others feel or expect is draining. It's like wearing a mask that never quite fits, and every interaction feels like an attempt to fit in where I don't belong.
I've begun to quit trying. I used to put so much effort into pretending, hoping that if I could just get the act right, I'd eventually blend in. But the strain of maintaining this facade has worn me down. I find myself withdrawing more and more, unable to keep up the pretense that I am like everyone else.
I won't end everything on purpose. I can't bring myself to make a definitive choice to leave this world. It's not that I fear the act itself; it's more that I can't be bothered to. Even though I feel so disconnected, a part of me still holds on, hoping that someday soon, something ends me quickly and quietly.
Instead, I write notes to my loved ones every few months. I update the writings with the small changes in my life, hoping that these updates might somehow help them understand me better or find some solace after my inevitable end. It's become a ritual, a way to reach out even though I won't be around when they find them. Each letter is a mix of mundane details and carefully chosen words, but they always feel like echoes of the same hollow feelings.
I've been doing this for years, and still, nothing really changes. The letters accumulate, and each one starts to blend into the next. My life remains static, and so do my updates. The repetition makes the letters feel like mere tokens, like I'm going through the motions without making any real impact. It's as if the act of writing them is just another way of avoiding real connection.
Perhaps I deserve this, for not being human. For failing to live up to the emotional and social expectations that others seem to navigate with ease. It's a harsh self-judgment, one that I grapple with daily. I wonder if my inability to truly connect or feel deeply is a punishment I've brought upon myself.
It gets humiliating. The shame of feeling so out of place and inadequate is almost too much to bear. Every time I print out a new letter, I stop and think about whether I have the right to give it to them in the future.
They might be better off if they didn't hear from me after the fact. This thought haunts me with every letter I draft. Maybe my absence would be less painful if I kept the strained connections I try to maintain, strained. Perhaps my loved ones would find more peace if I simply faded from their lives without leaving these reminders of my long, ongoing struggle.
I keep these thoughts to myself, hidden away like hundreds of my letters. Each letter is a reflection of my own inability to fully engage with life and those around me. The cycle of writing, doubting, and questioning continues, and the "guilt" of feeling so disconnected never seems to fade. It's a constant weight, a reminder of how difficult it is for me to be present, to truly belong a human.
I don't deserve to be treated like a human.
I don't deserve to be treated like a person.
None of my feelings are genuine, I can't think like a normal human should.
It gets very tiring to pretend. Each day feels like a performance where I'm constantly out of sync with the world around me. The effort it takes to keep up appearances and to act like I understand what others feel or expect is draining. It's like wearing a mask that never quite fits, and every interaction feels like an attempt to fit in where I don't belong.
I've begun to quit trying. I used to put so much effort into pretending, hoping that if I could just get the act right, I'd eventually blend in. But the strain of maintaining this facade has worn me down. I find myself withdrawing more and more, unable to keep up the pretense that I am like everyone else.
I won't end everything on purpose. I can't bring myself to make a definitive choice to leave this world. It's not that I fear the act itself; it's more that I can't be bothered to. Even though I feel so disconnected, a part of me still holds on, hoping that someday soon, something ends me quickly and quietly.
Instead, I write notes to my loved ones every few months. I update the writings with the small changes in my life, hoping that these updates might somehow help them understand me better or find some solace after my inevitable end. It's become a ritual, a way to reach out even though I won't be around when they find them. Each letter is a mix of mundane details and carefully chosen words, but they always feel like echoes of the same hollow feelings.
I've been doing this for years, and still, nothing really changes. The letters accumulate, and each one starts to blend into the next. My life remains static, and so do my updates. The repetition makes the letters feel like mere tokens, like I'm going through the motions without making any real impact. It's as if the act of writing them is just another way of avoiding real connection.
Perhaps I deserve this, for not being human. For failing to live up to the emotional and social expectations that others seem to navigate with ease. It's a harsh self-judgment, one that I grapple with daily. I wonder if my inability to truly connect or feel deeply is a punishment I've brought upon myself.
It gets humiliating. The shame of feeling so out of place and inadequate is almost too much to bear. Every time I print out a new letter, I stop and think about whether I have the right to give it to them in the future.
They might be better off if they didn't hear from me after the fact. This thought haunts me with every letter I draft. Maybe my absence would be less painful if I kept the strained connections I try to maintain, strained. Perhaps my loved ones would find more peace if I simply faded from their lives without leaving these reminders of my long, ongoing struggle.
I keep these thoughts to myself, hidden away like hundreds of my letters. Each letter is a reflection of my own inability to fully engage with life and those around me. The cycle of writing, doubting, and questioning continues, and the "guilt" of feeling so disconnected never seems to fade. It's a constant weight, a reminder of how difficult it is for me to be present, to truly belong a human.
